


Three Bag Problem

by Theconsultingdetective



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:12:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theconsultingdetective/pseuds/Theconsultingdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock solves one of his early cases. (More characters and chapters upcoming.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

          "Holmes? Sherlock Holmes?" Mr. Rollins asked the class. "Has anyone seen Sherlock Hol-". He was cut off by the classroom door being thrown opened. "Sherlock, you're late. Again." Sherlock set his books down on his desk.  
"Oh, right. I'm sorry, I wasn't aware," he remarked acidly. He sat down in his chair, pulling his long coat closed around him.   
"Mr. Holmes, if you continue to behave like such a smartalec, you will find yourself sitting in front of Principal Moreton," Mr. Rollins said angrily.  
"Won't be my first time." Sherlock rolled his blue eyes. "It'd do you well to wake up on time, Mr. Rollins. Maybe you'd have more right to admonish tardy students." The class snickered.  
"Silence!" demanded Mr. Rollins. "Mr Holmes, go to the principal. Now."   
"Surprise, surprise," he muttered as he left the room. 

          "Sherlock, it's not your place to make random accusations about teachers," said the principal gently. Sherlock took a seat, obviously setting in for a long explanation.   
"It wasn't random; I noticed certain aspects of his appearance that drew me to that conclusion."   
"Oh. And what were those?" he said, slightly more harshly, not expecting a serious response.  
"His shirt and his vest didn't match," he replied, in his element. The principal opened his mouth, but Sherlock held up a finger to stop him. "Usually they do. But they didn't this morning, which makes me think he didn't have time to plan what he was going to wear. He had coffee stains on his collar, suggesting he spilled some on himself. He probably drank it in the car."   
"How do you know he doesn't always?" asked the principal, his ire rising. Sherlock sighed.  
"If you would let me finish a sentence, you'd know. The reason I can tell is because he obviously isn't used to it. Skilled coffee drinkers know how to balance a cup and drive a car, especially if they do it often. As kind of a side note, his wife wasn't home this morning. Knowing her, she would've caught the color dissonance between his shirt and his vest. Probably an affair. Now, if you'll excuse me. Academic pursuits, and whatall." Not waiting for the principal's permission, he turned and left the office.   
            
          Holmes picked up his bookbag, containing a chemistry textbook, his cell phone, and four microscope slides he had "liberated" from the school laboratory. He glanced around the hall before ducking through a large set of wooden double doors that seperated the school from the outside world. It was a crisp fall morning in London, and freshly fallen leaves littered the ground under Sherlock's sensible dress shoes. He hailed a cab, three passing by before one stopped in from of him. The driver rolled down the passenger window and Sherlock bent slightly to speak to the cabbie.   
"Do you know the mortuary on A117 and Aldersbrook?" asked Sherlock, his confidence surprising the cabbie for one so young.   
"I do," said the man in a thick Cockney accent.   
"Good." Sherlock opened the back door and sat down. He popped the collar of his long overcoat and leaned forward, resting his chin on his fists. A tiny badge on the dashboard of the car identified the driver as Jim Eelston.   
"Tell me, Jim, what made you divorce your wife?" The driver cocked his head, his eyes flashing Sherlock a questioning look in the rearview mirror.   
"Please. The tan line and slight discoloration (which also indicated the inexpensive nature of the ring, but that's beside the point) make it almost impossible to miss. By your veritable smorgasbord of phone numbers crammed in your cupholder, however, I can see you've gotten back in the saddle. Good for you, Jim."   
All the shocked cabbie could muster was a quiet, "18 quid, please." Sherlock placed a twenty pound note in the mans hand, slung his bag over his shoulder, and stepped out of the car, before saying, "Keep the change." 

          Wind tousled Sherlock's black hair as he pushed open the glass door of the East Ham Mortuary. He stepped inside the small room, ignoring the box of latex gloves by the door.    
"Sherlock," said a voice, "how many times must I tell you you must wear gloves in here." He turned to face the speaker, a middle-aged man in a lab coat.   
"Dr. Hooper-", Sherlock began to argue, but the doctor gave him a stern glare which quickly silenced him. He turned, walked back through the door, and pulled out a pair of gloves too large for his small hands. Most every day, Sherlock arrived at school, was counted present, and stayed until he could no longer bear it, when he would leave unnoticed and take a cab to the morgue.   
"Happy?" he asked the doctor, holding up his hands for proof.   
"Very." Sherlock walked over to a series of hooks on the wall, where he hung his overcoat and replaced it with a white lab coat.   
"Sherlock, you can't continue to skip school like this," said Dr. Hooper, sounding reminiscent of Sherlock's father and older brother.  
"Would you rather me be smoking under bridges?"   
"Good point." From behind Sherlock entered a young woman, around Sherlock's own age.   
"Ah, Sherlock, this is my daughter Molly," said the doctor.   
"Hm," said Sherlock. He started opening the fridges, unfazed by the nature of the contents.   
"Hello," said the girl meekly. Sherlock picked his head up and turned to her. Immediately he noticed three things; the absence of a school uniform, the lab coat with "M.H." sewn on the pocket, and her small cross necklace engraved with initials and two dates. From this he knew three things; she worked here often (monogram on coat), she was homeschooled (every school for 20 miles required uniforms, not including Sherlock's own, but he certainly would've seen her around), and her mother was deceased (the dates on the cross were birth and death, the birth too long ago to be a sibling but not old enough to be a grandparent.) Typically, Sherlock would've informed the girl of these things, but she seemed so mousy and small in her plaid shirt and flared jeans that even he didn't have the heart.  "Yes, hello, Melly," he replied.   
"Molly," the girl corrected shyly.   
"Right," Sherlock said. Dr. Hooper sighed and pulled open one of the refrigerated drawers.   
"Today," said the doctor, "we have Audrey Berkshire. Died in a car accident." Because the drawer was so high, Dr. Hooper took out the tray on which the body lay and set it on the table in the back corner of the room. Sherlock read her toe tag and discovered that she was all of 43 years old, lived in Buckinghamshire, was born June of 1974, and died yesterday (Thursday, November 3rd) at 4:21 in the morning.   
"So what is the first step of performing an autopsy?"   
"Find the height, weight, age, and any definitive markings or scarings on the body," said Molly under her breath.   
"Right," answered Dr. Hooper, unzipping the body bag. Sherlock glanced over the body, noting trauma on the face, a cracked skull, and one more small thing; a bandaid on the woman's chest. Gently he took a pair of scissors from the tray of the nearby autoclave and cut the bandaid in two. Under it was what apppeared to be a bullet hole. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and checked the toe tag again. Despite Dr. Hooper's illegible handwriting, he still managed to make out Cause of Death: Auto Accident.  
While Molly and her father focused on the corpses head trauma, Sherlock returned to the autoclave  and found a pair of tweezers. With these, he removed a small .22 caliber bullet from the wound.   
"Dr. Hooper," said Sherlock, holding up the bullet for all to see.   
"Odd," said the man, taking the bullet in a gloved hand. "The Detective Inspector said it was a car accident." If it were anyone else, Sherlock would've lectured the man on the dangers of blind trust, but as this was Dr. Hooper, he simply said, "That is interesting. Where was her body found, out of curiosity?" His eyes were bright, his interest peaked.   
"In her car, I believe. At the bottom of Carsborough Pond." Dr. Hooper inspected the bullet as Sherlock bent over and peered into the bullet hole. Molly did the same. "How old would you say this wound is?" he asked the doctor.   
"Two days," Molly answered. Sherlock paused and checked the toe tag a third time.   
"And the head trauma?" asked Sherlock.  
"One day," she replied.  
"So the wounds were inflicted at different times." Doctor Hooper observed.  
"The gunshot first...so she was dead when the car accident occurred." Sherlock's brain was firing on all cylinders. He knew the accident was staged; by and large, the dead don't drive. He was also aware that the murderer(s?) were experienced, on account of the expertly placed bullet.  
"This is becoming odd. I'm calling the Detective Inspector," Dr. Hooper said. He walked over to the wall phone, removed his gloves, and keyed in a number which Sherlock, who had studied the tones of telephone keys, observed to be (772) 632-3729. "Mark? Hello, it's James. Listen, we were-I was-performing the autopsy on Audrey Berkshire, the crash victim, and we discovered a bullet in her chest. If you'd come by the morgue sometime, that'd be great." The doctor walked out into the hall to get some privacy, leaving Sherlock and Molly alone. Sherlock listened as the wind outside picked up and a heavy rain began. He folded his hands and placed his chin on his thumbs, pacing distractedly around the body. "Here's something," Molly said. She was standing slightly crouched, looking at the foot of the woman. "It's a tattoo." Sherlock walked over to her and looked over her shoulder. Being at least a head taller than Molly, he got a clear view of the tattoo; a serpent wrapped around a cross. "Odd tattoo on a 43 year old woman from Buckinghamshire," Molly observed with a small laugh.   
"Do you recognise it?" Sherlock asked.  
"It may be a symbol of a cult or a religious group. It doesn't look like a tattoo she'd just choose to get, though." Molly was right. The woman had obviously had plastic surgery on her lips and cheeks, liposuction, and a good hairstylist. Even in death, she seemed primped and preened.  
"Fascinating," said Sherlock, icy blue eyes bright with curiosity.   
"Sherlock, your parents will be expecting you soon." Dr. Hooper said, placing the phone back on its cradle. He picked up the tray on which the body rested and put it back in the fridge. "You can spend the entire day here tomorrow, if you wish." He removed his lab coat and replaced it with his long navy trenchcoat. "We'll drive you home." Sherlock pulled off his gloves in one fluid motion, dropped them in the trash by the door, took off his lab coat, and pulled his own coat back on. He turned to pick up his bag, but Molly already had it in her outstretched hand. Sherlock, his cold eyes imperceptibly softening momentarily, said, "Thank you." Molly's cheeks redenned and a strand of mousy hair fell over her quiet hazel eyes. 

          Dr. Hooper locked up the building and opened his black and white umbrella to shield the three from the steady, heavy rain. It was a short walk to a small car park where a silver compact car was parked. Sherlock set his bag in the passenger seat and slid into the back beside Molly. She cracked open a book laying in the footwell; "Poisons and Toxins of the Modern World." Sherlock moved slightly closer and read over her shoulder.   
"Are you through?" Molly asked. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. _She noticed,_ he thought.   
"Yes," he said, not portraying his inward surprise. "Thank you." They read in silence, only exchanging short phrases-"Finished?"   
"Close."   
"Now?"   
"Yes." They had made it to Chapter 7 (Identifying Symptoms of Various Poisons) when the car pulled up in front of a large brick house. Sherlock popped open his door, grabbed his bag, and turned up his coat collar. In the driveway in front of Dr. Hooper's compact was a black car, immaculately clean. Sherlock recognised it immediately, smiling to himself. He thanked Doctor Hooper before turning to Molly. "Molly," he said.   
"Um, goodbye, Sherlock. And if you ever want to...", she began, but he had already turned to go inside. His long, thin legs carried him quickly out of the downpour and into the large foyer of the Holmes house. 

_____________________________________________________________________ 

          "Sherlock?" called Mycroft from the large den. Sherlock left his bag by the foot of the stair and called back, "Yes." He walked into the den to find his brother with his feet up by the fire and a large textbook in his lap. "You're home from college?" he asked, walking past his brother and into the kitchen. He stooped down to look through a cabinet for his teapot.  "On break," responded his brother. He filled the teapot with hot water and turned on the gas burner with a satisfying click. "Tea, Mycroft?"   
"Please," said his brother. Sherlock came through to the den and wrapped himself in a blanket before collapsing on the sofa.   
"How was school?" asked Mycroft. Sherlock was silent. "You skipped again?" He closed his textbook and set it on the small side table next to a plate with the telltale scattered cake crumbs.   
"It's so boring!" groaned Sherlock, laying on the sofa with his back to his older brother.   
"Sherlock, you know it really upsets our parents. Especially Mother." Sherlock sighed.   
"Please. I could drop off the face of the Earth and Mother wouldn't think to ask where I was."   
"Sherlock, you know that's not true," scolded Mycroft.   
"It is and you know it. Your vision is just so clouded by your Opedius Complex that-"   
"I do not have an Opedius Complex!" Mycroft replied.   
"-that you are unable to see the obvious faults in the parenting job she's done." The teapot whistled and Sherlock stood up. "Where are they, anyway?" Sherlock asked.   
"Away. On business." Sherlock rolled his eyes. _They've sent him to babysit me,_ he thought. So like them to pass off their responsibilities to one who's clearly unfit to parent. He poured the water in two teacups, Mycroft's with a single tea bag and Sherlock's with an atypical three.   
"Will you cut me a slice of cake?" requested Mycroft from his sleek leather chair. Sherlock huffed and glared at Mycroft before begrudgingly cutting him a thin slice of dark chocolate cake. He added cream and sugar to his brother's tea until it was unrecognisably discoloured, bought both cups and the plate (fork intentionally set at 9 o'clock) into the den and set two on Mycroft's side table, watching pleased as Mycroft was forced to move the fork halfway around the plate so he could devour his fourth slice of cake that day. Mycroft was far from thin, with the slices of cake and the heavily sweetened tea making their mark on his rotund form. Sherlock, however, was practically a skeleton; his diet (or lack thereof) was a regular topic of discussion in the Holmes household. Sherlock compressed the tea bags on the side of his cup with the flat of his spoon before setting them on his side table. "Three tea bags?" Mycroft questioned.   
"Four slices of cake?" Sherlock countered, having noting a third crumb sprinkled plate haphazardly thrown on the kitchen sink and a fourth on the kitchen table.   
"Point taken," Mycroft replied, "but why three tea bags?" Sherlock glanced at the shrivelled, dark brown sachets on the table beside him. "They help me think," he said dismissively. "They stimulate my mind to help me deal with particularly puzzling questions."   
"What are you thinking of?" asked Mycroft. "What's your three bag problem?" Sherlock smiled to himself at the phrase.   
"A body has appeared at the morgue."   
"Shocking," Mycroft muttered.   
"Shut up. The supposed cause of death was a car accident, but the woman also suffered from a bullet wound." Sherlock tented his fingers and rested his head on his thumb. "The bullet wound was inflicted first, then the car accident-related injures. So someone killed her, then staged a car accident to cover up the murder. The questions are who and why."   
"The question is why are you getting involved with a homicide?" asked Mycroft.   
"Because, Mycroft, I'm apparently the only one competent enough and willing to solve the case."   
"You're not going to do the Carl Powers thing again, are you?" Sherlock set his jaw. The Carl Powers case had always been a sore spot for Sherlock, even though it was forgotten by everyone except him, his brother, and the police he pestered. "I am telling you, that that death was an accident does not make any sense. The shoes, Mycroft. Where were his shoes?" he asked, spreading his hands. Mycroft sighed and deftly changed the subject. "So is there any way to narrow down the suspect pool?"   
"No. Not without more information. Which reminds me-I have a phone call to make." He stood up and strode out of the room to the wall phone in the foyer. "Who are you calling?" Mycroft called after him. Sherlock payed no attention.  
   


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock continues his work on his newest case, stomps around a bit, and has a nice family dinner with his brother and the housekeeper.

          Sherlock tangled the cord of the wall phone around his finger and tapped his foot impatiently. "Pick up, pick up, pick up," he muttered under his breath. The phone rang four times before an answering machine came on-"This is D.I. Lestrade, please leave a message after the tone." Sherlock sighed-his luck. He remembered the DI clearly, and was fairly certain Lestrade would remember him as the obnoxious 8 year old who bothered the police constantly on the Carl Powers case. Sherlock still found the missing shoes suspicious-all the rest of the clothes were at the pool where Carl supposedly drowned, as he recalled from stolen glances at the police reports, but-he was snapped out of his thoughts by the shrill chirp of the message tone. Momentarily, he debated what to say. _I don't leave messages,_ he decided, and said simply, "This is Sherlock Holmes. Call me back as soon as possible. The number is 555-674-0009." He placed the phone back on its cradle, disappointed.   
"Who did you call?", asked Mycroft.   
"The Detective Inspector. He wasn't available."   
"But you left a message?"   
"Naturally," Sherlock replied. He wrapped himself back up in his blanket and took a sip of his tea.   
"So, this case, what are the facts?" Sherlock sighed. Mycroft was meddling, but then Mycroft always meddled. _Well, someone has to, I suppose,_ Sherlock thought to himself. "Audrey Berkshire, 43, from Buckinghamshire, died yesterday morning at 4:21 in the morning. It was supposedly, as I'm sure I need to repeat, a car accident, but she was obviously dead at the time of the accident. Oh, and she had a small tattoo on the underside of her foot." Sherlock omitted the other smaller details (the bullet's caliber, for instance), since he was sure they'd mean nothing to his entirely ordinary brother. "A tattoo of what?" asked Mycroft. Sherlock looked around him and, finding a sketchbook on his side table, drew a rough but surprisingly good rendering of the woman's tattoo. "Recognise it?" he asked, passing it to his brother. "Certainly. That's the symbol of a cult, I believe. Children of the something...the hill or the valley or something," Mycroft said, waving his fork as he spoke. "Thank you, Mycroft. That vague and uncertain inkling of yours was so helpful." He stood up, allowing his blanket to trail behind him as he walked out of the room, clutching his tea in one hand and the gathered corner of the blanket in the other.   
      
           Sherlock pushed open the door to his father's study, situated on the second floor right over the front door. The round window allowed the family patriarch to see all, coming and going to and from the Holmes household. Coming then was the kind, middle-aged housekeeper Mrs. Hudson. She puttered up the front steps, jangling her shiny silver housekey in newly manicured hands. Sherlock had always had a certain fondness for Mrs. Hudson. Perhaps it was her tolerance for his strange habits or her apparent affinity for making tea and cleaning up his messes of blood and chemicals. Whatever it was, he always helped her in with groceries (when he happened to be walking past the door when she came in) or jumping to her defence when Mycroft got short with her. He walked over to the wall of books, mostly encyclopaedias or dictionaries. He selected two books-the C-E Encyclopaedia Brittanica and A History of World Religions. He set them both on the large desk in the middle of the room, pausing for a moment to take in his environment. He was not allowed in the study, except to fetch things for his father. He marvelled at the large map on the opposite wall, at the two massive bookshelves taking up two whole walls, at the portrait of his great great grandfather, James Hamish Holmes. The walls were a warm chocolate brown, like the dark wood floors. The whole room smelled like heady pipe smoke and bourbon. Even the books looked luxurious-leather bound, deeply saturated with clearly printed black ink. First he cracked opened World Religions, flipping through in search of anything he could find on cults. There was a Children of the Sun and a Children of the Valley, but only one's symbol was identical to the tattoo on the foot of the victim. Sherlock sipped his tea and sat down in his father's large desk chair. The Children of the Valley was a large cult, with groups in America, France, Australia, China, Russia, and Britain. Specifically, Buckinghamshire. They taught a doctrine of loyalty, trust, pride, secrecy, and honor. Satisfied, Sherlock returned the encyclopaedia to its space on the shelf, and slid a discreet sliver of blotter paper in the World Religions book, replacing it in the only other gap in the bookshelf. He slipped out of the room, somehow still afraid that his father could see him from his "business trip", probably a clever way of concealing a trip to Aruba or some other place which was dreadfully sunny. He walked down the stairs, the trailing of his blanket like a cape making him feel regal and important. "Mrs. Hudson," he said upon meeting the housekeeper in the kitchen. "Hello, Sherlock dear."   
"Good to see you're out of this weather," he said, the politeness feeling foreign.   
"Horrible, isn't it?" she observed, setting down her small handbag on the kitchen table. Sherlock finished his tea and set it in the sink. "Quite," he replied awkwardly. He never was good at making small talk, and when he was it was always with an alterior motive. The rain made the small cream-colored kitchen dark, despite the three windows and the large lights. He walked through the kitchen and past his brother, who had not moved a single inch since he left. He watched from his perch on the sofa as Mrs. Hudson walked over to the kitchen island, took the teapot off the gas range, and refilled it. "Have you boys eaten?"   
"No," Mycroft replied. Simultaneously, Sherlock responded as well.   
"Yes."   
"Sherlock, what did you eat?" asked Mrs. Hudson. She was quite observant herself, and having seen only plates littered with cake crumbs, knew Sherlock hadn't had anything. "I don't want to eat," Sherlock said, sounding like a disagreeable toddler.  
"Sherlock, you have to eat to live," pointed out his older brother.   
"Ah, you're right. I had absolutely no idea," Sherlock replied snarkily.   
"Sherlock!" scolded Mrs. Hudson.   
"I'm not hungry, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock argued.   
"Well, I'll make you some dinner regardless."   
"You don't have to do that, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said firmly.   
"I'm your housekeeper, dear. It's my job." Sherlock slunk deeper into the sofa.   
"What were you able to dig up about the cult?" asked Mycroft. He had reopened his textbook and was leafing through the pages distractedly. "They've got an outpost in Buckinghamshire, which, you may remember, is the hometown of the victim." Mycroft let the textbook rest in his lap and tented his fingers. "So this woman was a member of the cult at one time," Mycroft said. "But why was she killed?"   
"My theory is she escaped the cult, had some incriminating information to share with the outside world, and was killed for it. But I need-" he was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson.   
"How does a roast sound, boys?"   
"Lovely, Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft replied. Mrs. Hudson opened a discreet door in the kitchen which led to a combined wine cellar/pantry downstairs. "more information, which is why-" again, Sherlock was interrupted, this time by the phone. "Well, look at that," Sherlock said.   
"Speak of the devil and all," Mycroft said. Sherlock leapt up to take the call.   
____________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

          Sherlock was disappointed. The call had not been the DI, as he expected, but a friend of Mycroft's. "Mycroft, there's an Irene for you." Mycroft sat up and ran over to the phone. "Only other time you run that fast is when food or Mum's involved," Sherlock jabbed as he handed the phone to his brother. "Irene? Hello." Sherlock sighed as he watched his brother reduced to a mess over the breathy voice on the other line. Sherlock collapsed on the sofa and turned on the television, mounted over the fireplace. "Two teenagers, Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty, were found not guilty today when charged with a white collar heist..." droned a woman behind pictures of a slim, dark-haired teenage boy in a suit Sherlock identified as Westwood. He clicked the remote and the picture changed-it was the middle of some science-fiction show. On the television, a blue box materialised on a foreign planet. Sherlock pulled the blanket over himself and watched, rapt. He turned up the television to drown out Mycroft's talking in the background. He watched the two episodes that were shown, then changed the channel again. Nothing good was on-tabloid shows, mostly. Mrs. Hudson came in and sat down in the chair Mycroft abandoned. "Ah, keep it on this, love," she requested.   
"This is the Gordon...Elliot...Show!" proclaimed a smooth-voiced announcer. Despite himself, Sherlock let out a dissatisfied groan. "I swear, someday someone's going to get you interested in trash television," Mrs. Hudson said. Sherlock scoffed.   
"It'd take a very special person to manage that," Sherlock said. He overheard Mycroft saying goodbye to the woman and hanging up the phone. He walked back in the room and glared at Mrs. Hudson. "Mycroft," Sherlock warned quietly. Mycroft dropped his shoulders and sat down on the edge of the sofa. Something in the kitchen dinged, and Mrs. Hudson leapt up with a quiet, "Oh!" Mycroft quickly returned to his seat, looking to Sherlock like a king who'd regained his throne. He heard the sound of a good knife cutting through vegetables and glanced over at Mrs. Hudson, chopping potatoes and carrots on the kitchen island. All he could think of was the case-a possibly ex cult member murdered (twice). He needed more information. He knew if he could find out where the victim lived, and possibly somehow infiltrate the cult, he would have it figured out. "Supper's ready, my dears!" Mrs. Hudson called. The room was filled with the smell of roasted meat and vegetables. Mycroft got up and walked out if the den, around a corner, and into the large dining room. Sherlock, though he was not eating anything, stood up and followed him. The dining room was large, painted deep maroon to make it appear "luxurious and expensive", according to the interior decorator hired by his parents when they first moved in. He sat down in a chair, blanket still wrapped around him. Mrs. Hudson passed out plates, already dished out with a immense helping of roast, accompanied by a slice of bread. The table had already been set with gleaming, silver flatware ( _and this is just the everyday set,_ Sherlock thought to himself). He'd been raised all his life in luxury-new clothes, good food, and 'help' always bustling around the mansion sized residences of the Holmes family. His family could afford it, of course, as his father was a surgeon of some renown and his mother a successful and acclaimed lawyer. He pushed his plate away, but no sooner had his fingers left its rim that Mrs. Hudson reprimanded him. "You have to eat, Sherlock dear."   
"Not hungry," he replied simply.   
"Have you eaten at all, Sherlock?"   
"I'm not hungry," he said, more adamantly this time.   
"Sherlock-" Mycroft cut in, from behind a mouthful of meat and potatoes.   
"What, Mycroft?" Sherlock roared. Mycroft gave his brother an icy stare, which was reciprocated by Sherlock. "I'll be in my room," he said, marching off with his slice of bread, his blanket trailing behind him. "Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called, but he didn't hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys. Hope you enjoyed the newest chapter of Three Bag Problem. As always, comment with thoughts/criticisms/ideas.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is introduced. A shorter chapter.

          Sherlock flopped onto his bed, made up with silk sheets of innumerable thread count. He sighed and dragged his hand along the wall, feeling for the light switch. He clicked it on, and the room was immediately bathed in warm white light. Sherlock glanced at the mold culture he was growing in a Petri dish on his nightstand. He scooped up a small sample with a spoon, put it on an empty slide, and took it over to his microscope, which sat on a desk under his large window. After looking at it for a few moments, he recorded a few notes on a notepad. "Spore number and size increased dramatically, thriving with addition of sucrose," he said aloud as he wrote. The mold colony was a personal project of his, just something to do since neither Mrs. Hudson, his parents, nor Mycroft would allow corpses in the house. He checked the time on an old grandfather clock by his door-4:42. Sherlock crossed his arms, wishing the time away. Tomorrow, he could pursue the case more. He already had worked out his plan: Mycroft would insist on driving him to the morgue, where at least a portion of London's finest would be investigating the body. There, he would speak to whomever was in charge and request to see information on Audrey Berkshire and the Children of The Valley's leader. Hopefully he would be able to get all the information from that, but otherwise he would infiltrate the cult himself. With any luck, he would have the case wrapped up in three days. He peeked out from around the grey window curtains, watching the rain slow. He looked out over his room-boxes of books littered the floor, clothes hung haphazardly in a walk-in closet, surrealist art hung on his dark blue-grey wall. He sat back down on his bed, pushed into a corner. He liked his room-from his bed he could see both the door and his window, allowing him to monitor the world. Restlessly, he got up off his bed and changed from his school clothes of black pants and a collared blue shirt into a t-shirt and warm flannel pants. He was watching the rain distantly when someone knocked on his wall. "Sherlock, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't come downstairs for a hour or so-I'm having a guest," Mycroft said.   
"And I'd appreciate it if you'd knock before you came in," Sherlock replied, "but we can't all have what we want, can we?" He turned back to his window. "Who is this guest? Not a girl, a stranger, or a teacher, or you've changed into other clothes," Sherlock said, appraising Mycroft's tartan lounge pants, white shirt, and robe, "but not a close friend, or you wouldn't have taken the precaution of warning me. Which leaves a vague aquaintance, probably someone you're tutoring judging by how you've brushed up on your Advanced Trigonomitry." Mycroft sighed.   
"Just don't come downstairs," Mycroft said.   
"Count on it," said Sherlock. Mycroft eased the door closed and left Sherlock alone to think of a reason to come downstairs and humiliate Mycroft in front of his guest.   
_________________________________________________________________________

          Sherlock slunk into his father's study, abandoning his blanket on his bed. He stood in front of the window, staring out as a black car pulled up. A blond boy, maybe two or three years older than Sherlock, stepped out and hefted a large backpack over his shoulder. His cream-coloured cardigan and blue jeans spoke of a plain, unassuming personality, and his worn trainers gave away his love of practicality and his budget. He bowed his head against the rain, now only the remains of the storm. Thunder still boomed over a hill, making the boy tense up noticeably whenever he heard it. He knocked on the door, three short raps, and waited stifly for the door to open. Mycroft let in the boy. Sherlock changed his plans accordingly, slinking out of the room and halfway down the steps. He crouched in a shadow, positioned so that he could see them, but they couldn't see him. "Hello, John," Mycroft said.   
"Hello Mycroft," the boy John replied.   
"Tea?" Mrs. Hudson asked automatically  
"Absolutely." John followed Mycroft into the kitchen.   
"I'm John," said the boy. He stuck out his hand for a handshake.  
"I'm Mrs. Hudson, the Holmes' housekeeper," she said, taking it.   
Sherlock craned his neck to watch as she filled the teapot and set it on the burner.   
"Please, sit down." They both walked into the den, leaving Mrs. Hudson to get two teacups out of the cabinet. John took a sheet of paper out of his backpack and handed it to Mycroft. "I have a Advanced Trigonometry test tomorrow," he said.   
"I'll make up some problems for you, then," said Mycroft.   
"Thank you." Sherlock walked the rest of the way down the steps and into the den.   
Mycroft sighed. "What, Sherlock?" he demanded.   
"I need a pen," he said innocently.  
"You mean to tell me there's not a single pen in your whole room?" There were, in fact, 2 bins of pens on Sherlock's desk (one for ballpoint and one for felt tip, rubber banded into colour groups.) "I do."   
"I find that hard to believe."   
"I find it hard to believe you've been deemed able to tutor someone, but wonders never cease, it seems." He sat down beside John, making sure to leave more that the acceptable distance between the pair of them.   
"I have one," said John  
"One what?" Sherlock asked.   
"A pen. In here." He rifled through his beaten backpack and produced a pen. Sherlock took it. "Do you need paper, as well?"   
"I've got some." He looked on the side table and found a drawing pad. He took the pad and paper and started writing notes about the case, though his primary reason for wanting the pen was to see what he could learn about the boy. The pen was rather nice; it was a push-pen, still in working condition so not cheap, but with "AMS" printed down the side. Sherlock recognised the acronym as representative of Army Medical Services, which solidified his theory that Johns father was a army doctor. The worn-down nature of the tip revealed that the pen was old, but well-kept. It obviously belonged to someone who cared about their things. The slight fading of the words revealed that John had a tight grip, he wrote quickly, and he used the pen often. He'd apparently had it for a while, which told Sherlock that he kept up with his things. All-around, he seemed a trustworthy, responsible, and neat person. He handed it back to John. "Thank you," John said, putting the pen back in a zippered pocket of the bag.   
"Korea or World War II?" asked Sherlock, in a off-the-cuff way.   
"Sorry, what?" John asked.   
"Was your father in the Korean War or World War II?"   
"Korean," John answered. He cocked his head slightly and furrowed his eyebrows. "How did you know that?" he asked.   
"Don't-" Mycroft held up a hand to stop John. "Don't provoke him, you'll be here all night. Here," he said, handing John the sheet of maths questions. Sherlock glanced over the sheet, before saying, "That should be an 8." He pointed a long, thin finger at the third question. "Otherwise, it's unsolvable." John looked over the problem himself before making the suggested edit. "You're right," said John.   
"Not surprising," said Sherlock.   
"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson admonished from the kitchen. She seemed to have an ear especially tuned in for Sherlock's snarky remarks. Sherlock looked slightly cowed. He stood up to leave, but paused at the foot of the stairs. "Mycroft, I'll need you car in the morning," he said. He knew giving his brother fair warning would make Mycroft more likely to loan him the car, and though he wouldn't admit it there was something about John that interested him. "Not possible," said Mycroft, pointedly not looking at Sherlock. "I have things to do."   
"What things?"   
"They're no business of yours, that's for certain."   
"Then I'll take a cab."   
"You will not," said Mycroft.   
"I'll drive you," suggested John.   
"John, you don't have to-" Mycroft objected.   
"No trouble," said John.   
"Thanks. I'll see you at 9:00?"   
"Right," said John. Sherlock started to leave, but paused.   
"The name's Sherlock Holmes, by the way," he said, turning around to look at John. As he was leaving, he heard Mycroft say, "Yes, he's always like that." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a little short, but I'm pretty proud of it. I hope you guys liked it and, as always, comment with thoughts/reviews. Thanks and more soon!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go to the morgue together

          Sherlock sat down on the ground next to one of the cardboard boxes of books littering his floor. He pulled out the first book on the top of the stack-About Me. Across the front was scrawled his name, in unreadable script. The book was dated 1986, and under that the book requested his age: 5, at the time. He flipped through the book languidly. One page bore what could only loosely be called a drawing. It was supposed to depict him, his parents, and his brother on a pirate ship, though that was hardly obvious. The page had the title, "The Perfect Day". The next page had the heading "When I Grow Up...", and in the blank was written "a pirate". He smiled imperceptibly and closed the book. Sherlock had never been one for sentiment, but boredom made him do strange things. He wished he could work on the case, but he was in Limbo, with just enough information to hold his interest yet not enough to work with. If only the Detective Inspector, or anyone, would take him seriously, he could have all the information he needed. He pulled another book from the box, this one a hardcover copy of "Anatomy for the Young Doctor" given to him by his father on the occasion of his 7th birthday. The box was filled with similar books-anatomy, physiology, Latin Roots, medicine. He emptied the box and shelved the contents in his immense bookshelf. Once he emptied that box, he was on to the next. The second box was primarily books on law, all from his mother. Practical law, common law, basic law terms, "A Young Lawyers Guide to Courtroom Ettiquette and Jargon". Interspersed with those were a few purchases of his own-mostly books on true crime and poison. He continued this way-"Basic Pharmaceuticals , "A Practical Guide to Household Poisons", "The Courtroom Handbook." He worked until the early morning, and soon had shelved every book in his room. At 5:08 he finally lay down in bed. The house was silent-no phone calls, no music, not even footsteps. He stared out his window. Mrs. Hudson's silver Reliant Robin still sat in the driveway. Sherlock found this too peaceful, the silence. He looked over at his mold colony, sitting in a Petrie dish on his bedside table. He rolled over restlessly, finding himself unable to sleep. He regarded sleep as a waste of time, unnecessary and boring. He walked over to his bookshelf, selected a volume on true crime, and read until 7:21. Mrs. Hudson left at 7:30, leaving a note on the kitchen island. Sherlock discovered it when he went downstairs to pour himself some tea. 

"My Dears-

I hope you have a good day. As always, I will see you again 3:30. Sherlock, if you go to the morgue, please do not bring anything home.

Your housekeeper,   
Mrs. Hudson" 

He set the note back down and put on some tea before returning upstairs to dress. He put on a purple collared shirt and black pants, then came back downstairs to find Mycroft already having used up all the water for the tea. Sherlock checked the digital clock on the stove-8:36. He went into the den and sat down in his chair. Mycroft was sitting in his chair, drinking his tea and looking smug. "Morning," Mycroft said.   
"Evidently," Sherlock replied. "I see you drank my tea."   
"Your name wasn't on it," Mycroft said into his teacup. Mycroft stared at the wall and Sherlock stared lazily at Mycroft. Finally, at 8:58 (Sherlock was diligently watching the wall clock), the already familiar car of John Watson arrived. He rang the doorbell and Sherlock, not wanting to appear too eager, waited a moment to get it. He opened the door and John stood outside, wearing more jeans and a white-and-navy striped jumper. "Good morning, Sherlock," said John. Sherlock was slightly surprised that John knew his name. "Morning, John. Come in," he offered. "I don't have any tea made..." "That's fine. I had some at home." Despite their awkwardness, they were getting along well-much better than Sherlock usually got along, for certain. "Right. Shall we?" asked Sherlock, gesturing at the door.   
"Ready when you are," said John. "Nice house," he remarked.   
"Thank you, but it's hardly my doing. I just live here," he replied. This was for the most part true. John allowed himself a small laugh. Out at the car, which Sherlock noted was fastidiously clean inside and out, John unlocked the drivers side door and unlocked Sherlock's with the toggle on the inside door handle. Sherlock walked around to his side and climbed in. The car smelled slightly of hair product and tea, with a tinge of aftershave. Sherlock found the smell not unpleasant, if he was honest. "So, Sherlock," said John, starting the car, "if you don't mind-"   
"You want to know how I knew your father was a soldier."   
"Please." John backed cautiously out of the driveway.  
"It was simple, really. It was in your posture and your manner-a military upbringing. Even the way you knocked on the door, three short raps. Then, of course, it was easy for me to narrow down the war he was involved in based on your approximate age," said Sherlock.   
"That's-wow. Impressive." Sherlock smiled.   
"I could also tell from the pen you lent me that you're neat, organised, able to keep up with your things, and right-handed. From its niceness, contrasting with the state of your shoes and bag, I could deduce that it was not something you bought, rather a keepsake from your father's time in the army."   
When Sherlock was finished showing off, he crossed his arms and settled back into his chair. "You knew all that based on the way I knocked on your door?" John asked, shocked. He turned down the road that lead out of Sherlock's neighbourhood. "It's simple, really. All you have to do is watch-watch the way people behave, the way they handle themselves, simple things everyone sees but no one notices."   
"Hmm," said John admiringly. "Where are we going?"   
"The morgue on A117 and Aldersbrook, please. Near London." John's car hummed easily down the road. "Your father was an army doctor, right?" Sherlock said.   
"Yes. How-"   
"First aide kit, not store-bought, under the seat, and the acronym on the pen. You intend to follow in his footsteps?"   
"Not quite. I'd like to be a doctor, but I'd rather be a paediatrician." Sherlock cocked his head, interested.   
"Disenchanted by the army lifestyle?"   
"I wasn't enchanted originally, to be honest. This way?" he asked, pointing down the left option where the road forked. "Yes."   
"And yourself? What do you want to do, professionally?" asked John.   
"There's not exactly a proper name for what I'm going to do," Sherlock replied. He steepled his fingers. "What is it you're going to do?" John asked.   
"I'm going to be solving cases for the absolutely incompetent police force," he said.   
"What, like a consultant?"   
"Precisely," said Sherlock. "A consulting detective."   
"Fascinating. And our trip to the morgue has something to do with a case?"   
"Yes."   
"What case?"   
"You haven't heard of it," said Sherlock. "The killer disguised the murder as a car accident."   
"Clever," said John. His tone verged on the reverent.   
"Exactly," said Sherlock. When they were about two minutes away from the morgue, Sherlock said, "You're taking this well, John."   
"Sorry?"   
"I said, you're taking this well. Anyone else, put in this situation, would have turned around a long time ago."   
"I suppose. I've just been around morbid things my entire life, my father being in the army. Death is a fact of life, and all. But I guess you know that better than most," said John matter-of-factly as he parked the car in front of the morgue.  
"Yes," Sherlock agreed, stepping out of the car, "I do."   
_________________________________________________________________________

          Sherlock grandly pushed opened the front doors of the morgue. "John, after you," he said. John slipped past him and into the long hall. "This way." He lead John to the door at the end of the hall. Molly was already inside, standing over Audrey's body. John seemed a little taken aback at first, but eventually warmed up to the situation. "Morning, Molly," Sherlock said. Molly smiled, and Sherlock knew it was because he'd remembered her name. "Good morning, Sherlock. Who's this?"   
"Ah, this is my, erm," Sherlock debated what to call John. Companion and friend suggested an intimacy they had not yet reached. "This is my associate, John. John, this is Molly Hooper, the daughter of Doctor Hooper. He's the head mortician here."   
"Pleasure," said John, stepping forward and offering her his hand.   
"Right," she said. She fumbled her glove off and shook his hand shyly.   
"Where's your father?" Sherlock asked.   
"He's, um, he's at a doctor's appointment," said Molly.   
"Is he ill, your father?" asked John, making conversation.   
"He'll be fine," said Molly, but it sounded hollow, like she was trying to convince herself.   
"Well, I hope all goes well."   
"Thank you," said Molly. Sherlock, who could no longer stand the polite small talk, straightened up.   
"Did Lestrade call you last night?" he asked Molly.   
"The detective inspector? Erm, yes, he did. I don't know what he said, though."   
"Were they on the phone long?" Sherlock asked.   
"Yes, maybe twenty minutes. I think they were going to meet somewhere, and talk about the case."   
"Where?" asked Sherlock.   
"Oh, my dad said. 12:30, I think, at the police station." Sherlock checked the wall clock. It was only 9:47. He sighed through his nose. "Alright. Are there any other bodies?"   
"One at this branch," she said. She opened one of the drawers and, with John helping her and Sherlock looking on like a overseer, replaced Audrey's body. Then she opened a different drawer and, again with John's aide, placed the body of a decrepit old man on the table. Sherlock came over, looked it up and down, then waved a hand dismissively. "Natural causes, probably heart failure. No foul play. Boring," he said. "Okay," Molly conceded, and they all three of them replaced it in the drawer. There was nothing left for Sherlock to do at the morgue, but he still needed to get to the station and he didn't want to go home in between. "Molly," Sherlock said, nodding at her. He turned to leave.   
"Goodbye, Molly. Good to meet you," John said. He smiled and left, leaving Sherlock and Molly alone momentarily. "Sherlock," Molly said as Sherlock's hand alighted on the doorknob, "Sherlock, my father is dying." 

          Sherlock recognised in her voice the crack of someone who's about to cry, even though they are trying with every fibre of their being not to. "Oh, Christ, Molly," said Sherlock. Her eyes were red and tears threatened to roll down her cheeks. Sherlock knew he should comfort her, but he had no idea how. He did what he'd seen people do, in public and on television. He walked awkwardly over to her side and brushed a strand of hair out of her face with long, pale fingers. "It's going to be okay," he said, in a weak attempt to comfort her. It just came out sounding like a question or a guess. He stood there, looking down on her as her shoulders shook. She let out a cry and threw her arms around him. For a moment, he stood there. Then, after his shoulder had been thoroughly soaked, he wrapped his arms experimentally around her shoulders and bowed his head a little. She hugged him tighter and, when he was sure he would be strangled, John came in. "Sherlock," he said, unaware of what was going on, "the car-" he stopped. "Oh my God. Molly? Are you okay?" He stepped towards the pair. Molly unlatched herself from Sherlock and wiped her eyes. "It's nothing," she said.   
"Nothing. My god, Molly," he said again, with a little laugh. "This does not look like nothing."   
"John, I'm fine."   
"Alright. Well, if you're sure, Sherlock?" John said.   
"Right," Sherlock replied. The pair walked out, Sherlock casting a final glance over his shoulder at Molly. She smiled soulessly and he let the door close quietly behind him. When John was safely out of earshot, he turned to Sherlock. "Go back in there and ask her out for a coffee."   
"Why?" Sherlock said, sharply. "You're the one who wants to help her, why can't you do it?"   
"Because, Sherlock, I may not be a genius like you but I can see the way she looks at you. She obviously is not fine," he said, "and you can help her."   
"Help her? What for?"   
"Because she needs you, you heartless robot! Go!" Sherlock had never been commanded before. He sighed and turned around, rubbing his temples. John took this opportunity to push him back down the hall into the room. Sherlock fixed his shirt and stood up. "Molly." She was leaning on the wall, crumpled on the floor. "Sherlock."   
"I was wondering-are-are you busy for the rest of the day?" he asked, his confidence knocked out of him. He was confused. Apparently, he cared about her, since if this were any other girl he would already have gotten a yes. He ran his hand through his hair, the contrast between the black of his hair and the alabaster paleness of his hand shocking. "No, I'll be here. Why?" she asked, her voice still breaking randomly. "I was-John and I were-going to get some coffee somewhere and we were-I was-wondering, maybe you'd like to come with us?"   
"Yeah, that would-I would-yeah." She pulled off her coat and hung it up on the wall before following him out of the room to where John waited at the far end of the hall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. I'm sorry it's been so long since I updated-don't hate me. I hope you guys liked it. As always, leave ideas/criticism in the comments.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, John, and Molly go for tea as promised, then Sherlock and John go to the precinct.

          A sullen Sherlock, a pleased John, and a red-eyed Molly walked out to John's car.   
"This is a very nice car," Molly said politely.   
"Thank you. It's new-well, relatively. It's a hand me down from my older brother." John unlocked his door, then the passenger seat door. Sherlock popped open Molly's door before sliding into his seat. "John, I don't want any coffee," Sherlock hissed, careful to make sure the still emotional Molly didn't hear. "Then don't get anything."   
"I don't have any money," he lied.   
"It was my idea, I'll pay for it." Sherlock groaned and flopped over in his chair. "Be mature, Sherlock," John said quietly. "I am mature!" he stage-whispered back.  
"You're throwing a temper tantrum."  
"You've only just met, and already you're arguing like an old married couple," Molly laughed from the back seat. "You're absolutely right, Molly. Sorry about all that," John said. "I'm not," muttered Sherlock.   
"You don't have to be, Sherlock."   
"Let's get that coffee, then!" Molly suggested brightly. John started the car and they pulled down the road. "Now, there's a coffee shop I know of nearby, or a tea house slightly farther away. What would you prefer-"   
"Neither," Sherlock mumbled.   
"-Molly," finished John. "What would you prefer, Molly?"   
"If it's a hassle," Molly said, (which it is, Sherlock thought but managed to avoid saying), "we don't have to go."  
"No trouble, Molly. Right, Sherlock?" John coheresed.   
"Hmm," Sherlock replied.   
"Coffee, then, please." John nodded.   
"Coffee it is." 

          The ride to the coffee shop was painfully quiet. Sherlock had put in the radio to news, which John changed to acoustic guitar music, which Sherlock changed to classical. Molly sat in the back, occasionally asking John a welcome question or two which he answered gladly. She also asked Sherlock the occasional question-"How is your brother, your mother and father," to which he responded, "gluttonous, absent." The arrival at the coffee shop was welcome to them all. They walked inside the small, corner building on the outskirts of London. "If you look hard enough, you can see the country!" said Molly.   
"You're right," John replied. "Do you live in the city?"   
"Not quite. Not as far out as the country, but not around here either. How about you?"   
"Out in the developments, like you." The politeness of the conversation grated on Sherlock's ears. At the counter, he asked for "the strongest coffee available." John got tea and jam on bread, and Molly got coffee, and they both filled it with cream and sugar. They sat at a table and stirred their drinks.   
"Sherlock tells me you're working on a case?" John said.   
"Yes, actually," said Molly. "A murder, covered up by a car accident." Sherlock's ears perked up at the word 'murder.' "But how does a dead man get in a car accident?"   
"The deceased is a woman, and the murderer probably just put the car in neutral and gave it a push into the lake."   
"Have you established any suspects, or possibly a motive?" said John.   
"Not specific suspects, although I have learned that she was an ex-member of a prevalent cult-Children of the Valley. You may have heard of it," Sherlock said. He was leaning towards John, seated across from him. His blue eyes were bright with enthusiasm. Molly, beside him, watched, wrapt.   
"I haven't," John said.   
"Shame." Sherlock checked the white wall clock, which hung on the dark blue wall above a piece of abstract art. "What time did you say your father arranged arranged the meeting with the DI?" he asked.  "12:30," she replied. Sherlock nodded.  
"So what is it your father is dying of?" Sherlock asked, trying to be sensitive but curious nonetheless.   
"Sherlock," John reprimanded lightly.  
"It's fine, John," said Molly. "He's got throat cancer, I believe."   
"I'm sorry," John said.   
"The prognosis is negative, then?"   
"Sherlock!" John said, more severely.   
"Yes. The doctors give him between one and two months."   
"That is unfortunate," said Sherlock, in a pathetic attempt to be sympathetic.   
"It's okay. He's had a good life."   
"Where will you go?" Sherlock asked.   
"To my aunt, I suppose. She lives down south. It won't be that bad," she says, but Sherlock can tell that she's trying to convince herself just as much as she's trying to convince him. That's the one fault of deduction, he thinks-you can never be fooled by a soothing lie. Sherlock can see through everything, and everyone, and sometimes it scares even him.   
__________________________________________________________________________________

          After thirty minutes and finished coffee, they got chased away for loitering and taking up seats, even though business was slow. They went out to John's car and sit for five minutes. Finally, Molly looked at the clock. "It's almost twelve," she said. "My father should be back at the morgue soon."   
"You need to find some way to keep your father from meeting Lestrade," Sherlock said.   
"Why?" Molly and John asked in unison.   
"I only need maybe fifteen minutes with him," he said. "Suggest you take the scenic route or something. Please." He looked pleadingly at the reticent Molly, as a last resort, and she smiled.  
"Alright. Shouldn't be too hard."   
"Thank you." John drove down to the morgue, this ride a little less stiff and awkward.   
"There's jam on your cheek," Sherlock said.   
"Sorry?" John asked.   
"I said, there's a bit of jam on your cheek." John rubbed his mouth with one hand, then turned to Sherlock for affirmation. "Gone?" he asked.   
"Hmm," Sherlock replied. They pulled into the parking lot and everyone climbed out of the car. They didn't see Dr. Hooper's car, so they all opted to get out of the cold and return to the morgue. Josh held the door for Molly, who said, "Thank you," and Sherlock, who said "John," as he walked past.  
"Now, from here we'll need to go to the station. I assume you know where that is?"   
"I do."   
"Grand." Sherlock pulled his coat more snugly around him and yawned pointedly. As if on cue, the door opened and Dr. Hooper entered. "Oh, afternoon, boys."   
"Doctor," Sherlock said, "this is my associate, John Watson. John, this is Dr. Hooper."   
"Pleasure," said the doctor, shaking John's hand warmly.   
"Likewise, Doctor."   
"Molly, we need to be on our way," the doctor said.   
"Actually, dad," Molly said, casting Sherlock a glance, "there's a body in here I'd like you to look at." She led her father into the morgue and Sherlock and John walked hastily to the door. They walked out to John's car for the third time that day. "So what's going to happen at the precinct?"   
"Hopefully something, if the DI has gained some common sense since the Carl Powers case."   
"Carl Powers?"   
"There was a boy-Carl Powers. He drowned in the school pool."   
"That's not exactly a case, though," John said.   
"He was on the swim team. One day he got an inexplicable cramp and drowned."   
"It's not that unusual-"   
"It was his shoes. They weren't at the crime scene. That is unusual."   
"How did you see the crime scene if the DI wouldn't let you get involved?"   
"With a little forgery, you'd be surprised how easy it is to get into places," Sherlock said. John chuckled.   
"I wouldn't know," he answered.   
"Wouldn't you?"   
          John parked the car on the side of the road in front of the police station. "Let me do the talking," Sherlock said. "Just nod at intervals and answer questions asked of you." They walked inside, past a couple of scruffy looking men and a scantily clad woman. Sherlock ignored the swirl of uniformed men and women and cut through the crowd to find Lestrade. At the back of the room was a man with a styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand and a folder of papers in the other. "I can't help you with that," he told a shorter man who was standing beside him.   
"But Detective Inspector-"   
"It's not my department," he replied impatiently. He started walking towards Sherlock, who was being followed closely by John. Instead of stopping in front of Sherlock, Lestrade walked past him, like he didn't even exist. "Detective Inspector," he said, offering a hand in an attempt to start things off well. Either the DI didn't hear or was ignoring him. Sherlock and John stalwartly followed him through the mass of people. They followed him into his office, where it was much quieter. "Detective Inspector, I need to talk to you about the Audrey Berkshire case."   
"There is no Audrey Berkshire case," Lestrade said, sitting down at his desk.   
"You did speak to Dr. Hooper?"   
"Yes," said the Detective.   
"I'm an associate of his, Sherlock Holmes."   
"You're the Carl Powers boy," he said disdainfully.   
"I am," he said, brushing off the comment. "Dr. Hooper and I have reason to believe that Audrey Berkshire was murdered."   
"Based on what?" said the man incredulously.   
"We found a bullet in the autopsy," Sherlock said. He was holding his own in the face of the Detective Inspector, talking like equals rather than an adult to a youth. "I'm far to busy-"   
"I don't need your assistance, I just need access to your resources."   
"Which ones," he said begrudgingly.   
"Audrey Berkshire's and anything you have regarding The Children of the Valley."   
"I can't do anything for you," he said. "I can't just give out private records to anyone who comes around asking."   
"Detective Inspector, if you're to lazy to-"   
"I don't have time for this," he said, cutting Sherlock off. John, who had been sitting silently in the back of the room in a armchair until then, said, "Detective Inspector, if you just pull the files for Sherlock, we can handle it from there. It won't take any effort on your part."   
"Boys, don't make me remove you," he threatened, flipping through a folder that was on his desk.   
They just stood there, glaring daggers at the Detective. "Now," he said. John looked over at Sherlock, who folded his arms and turned on his heel. John followed him, and once they were outside the building, John said, "What are you going to do now?" Sherlock looked John dead in the eyes and said, "John, I think I'm going to join a cult." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while, but here's chapter 5! As always, comment if you have something to say. More soon!


	6. Chapter 6

          "You're what?" John asked, jaw dropped. He opened his car door, but didn't get in.  
"I'm going to join a cult," he repeated, like it was obvious.   
"Sorry, what?"   
"The victim is an ex-member of a cult, the Children of the Valley," he explained wearily. "The cult is very private, but Audrey got out, which means she had inside information. She knows all the vicious little secrets of the cult, and she could spill them whenever and to whomever she pleased. That's motive for murder, wouldn't you say?" He opened his car door and climbed in, having to hunch a little to get into the small vehicle. John sighed and sat down in the driver's seat.  
"But if you join, you'll have to get out as well, won't you? And then they'll come after you, won't they?"   
"Calculated risk, John."   
"Calculated risk-do you even know where this place is?"  
"I have some idea."   
"Sherlock, I don't think you realise-"  
"Of course I realise! What, don't you think I've thought this through? Don't you think I have a plan?"   
"Fine, then, you're so clever, what's your plan?"  
"I'm going to infiltrate the cult, find the killer, and have them arrested. Just drive me back home, I'll get a cab there tomorrow." John started the car.   
"This is entirely ridiculous," he said when they arrived at a stoplight. "Can't you just ask the police to do it?"  
"You saw how the detective inspector reacted. He wouldn't get involved in this if I payed him," Sherlock said. "All you have to do is drive back to my house and I'll be out of your life altogether."   
"Do you not understand how dangerous this is?"   
"John, you are not my mother. You don't have to watch out for me." Sherlock crossed his arms like a child throwing a tantrum. The rest of the ride was in silence, till the arrived at the Holmes house. Sherlock took off his coat as he got out, waited till John's back was turned, and tucked it into the passenger seat before going inside. John waved at him, though it was more of just a hand raise, from inside the car and Sherlock, without turning around, waved back before disappearing through the heavy wood doors of his house. 

          "How did that go?" asked Mycroft from his chair.   
"Uneventful. Is there tea?"   
"Haven't made any."   
"Is there coffee?" asked Sherlock, irritated.   
"No."  
"What good are you, then?"   
"Not much."   
"Obviously." Sherlock sat down on the sofa, massaging his temples.   
"Where did you go?"  
"Does it matter?"   
"Somewhat," Mycroft said, trying to sound nonchalant.   
"First, the morgue, then a coffee house, then morgue, then the precinct. Have you interrogated me enough?" Sherlock looked knives at his older brother, who was leafing through papers in a Manila folder.   
"Yes, I suppose."   
"Fantastic," Sherlock said sarcastically before stomping upstairs. He sat in his fathers study, scanning the shelves for a interesting book. It was hard to find anything that would warrant, much less keep, his attention, but eventually he settled on a book of strange and unexplained case files as the closest proxy to an actual case. In a short time, Mrs. Hudson arrived yet again. "Hello, loves!" she called. Sherlock, irritatingly, could hear her from upstairs.   
"I'm sorry I'm late, I got held up in traffic."  
"Mrs. Hudson, you are only five minutes late. No need to apologise," Sherlock said loudly.   
"Ah, Sherlock." He could hear her coming up the stairs, so he crossed the hall quickly back into his own room, book in hand. He stealthily situated himself on his large bed so it looked he'd been there the whole time.   
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson," he said once she opened the door.   
"Hello. Did you work out your driving arrangements with that John boy?"  
"I did," he said without looking up from his book.  
"Good, good. And did you have a pleasant time?"  
"Fine," he said noncommittaly.   
"Good. He's a very nice boy, that John," Mrs. Hudson said suggestively.   
"Hmm," Sherlock said in reply. He hadn't really heard what she said, but 'hmm' was generally a good default response. After she straightened up some of the books in the shelves, she slipped out without Sherlock noticing. Sherlock stayed in his room till five, when Mrs. Hudson demanded he come down to at least sit with them for dinner. 

          Mycroft, as usual, devoured the spaghetti carbonara Mrs. Hudson prepared, with Sherlock looking on in disgust. The long dining room table could not have put enough space between them, in Sherlock's opinion.  
"Have you eaten anything today, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked.   
"I've had coffee earlier, and I'll have tea later. Must you eat like that, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped.  
"What do you mean?" he asked.   
"You did just eat earlier today, correct? You behave like you haven't seen food in years."  
"Sherlock!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson.  
"At least I eat, unlike you, freak."  
"Mycroft!" Mrs. Hudson said, whipping her head between the two arguing boys like she was watching a tennis match. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, stood up abruptly, and left the room. He ran up to his room and finished the case files book in a few minutes. He put it on his bookshelf and sat on his bed for a moment, expecting the phone to ring. After a brief second, it did. He ran down the stairs and answered it quickly. 

          "Sherlock Holmes," he said.  
"Sherlock," said a voice he recognised as John, "you've left your coat in my car."  
"Have I? I'm sorry," he lied.  
"It's nothing. I'll bring it by in the morning."  
"Right. See you then." Sherlock hung up, then walked into the kitchen. He put a kettle on for tea and took a tea bag out of the cabinet. While he waited for the water to boil, Mycroft came in. "Hello, Sherlock," he said. Sherlock grunted in response. Mycroft took a bottle of painkillers out of the medicine cabinet and shook two into his palm. His light brown hair clung to his forehead with sweat and his face looked pale and grey. He poured a glass of water and took the two pills, leaning heavily on the counter. Sherlock turned his back to Mycroft for a moment to pour the tea and, when he turned back to get a teacup, saw his brother collapsed on the kitchen floor. He didn't even panic-just knelt down and felt his pulse. It was weak and irregular, which meant only one thing.   
"What's all the noise, then?" Mrs. Hudson called from the living room. She walked in and immediately gasped sharply.   
"Mrs. Hudson, it seems my brother's had a heart attack. I'd suggest calling an ambulance." She nodded shakily and ran to the phone. Soon, the ambulance had arrived, and Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft were off to the hospital. Sherlock, to his joy, was left blissfully alone, though he couldn't help but think what condition his brother may have been in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know it's been ages since I posted anything, and I'm sorry. I hope you guys liked the chapter, though. Thanks for reading, and there'll be more relatively soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Thanks for reading the first chapter of my Sherlock fanfic. Comment with thoughts/criticisms/ideas for following chapters. Hope you guys liked it! More soon!


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